


As Long As You Love Me

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [8]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, One Shot, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: It's been a long time coming - this.  But worth the wait.





	As Long As You Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair
> 
> Long time no write! I've got another longer one shot in the works (we used to date and now we're meeting again unexpectedly fic) but idk timing on it? Also might do another shorter one shot collection too...
> 
> Hope you like!

Generally, getting to share a bed with the love of your life isn’t a particularly trying task.  But when said love of your life does not return these feelings, it honestly feels more like torture - being so close to what you want and not being able to get it.  So Feyre wakes up in a pretty foul mood considering Rhysand’s arm is banded around her middle and she can feel _certain parts_ of his anatomy starting to wake up.

Still, it’s not his fault that he doesn’t feel the same way, whatever his sleep-induced snuggling tendencies, so she tries to extricate herself from his embrace without waking him.

It had been a strange and mostly uninteresting series of events that led to sharing a bed between them.  They’d had a small get together last night in her tiny but cozy studio apartment - the whole little Velaris ‘family’ - and everyone had somehow started playing one of those involved, generally competitive games that usually break friendships and homes.  And normally it would because Cassian would compete over who _pees faster_ \- which actually, he did - and Nesta tends to enjoy being contrary in general.  But Mor had come prepared, handing out the ‘additional rules,’ a list that basically amounted to a complex drinking/dare game.

Surprisingly though, the addition of alcohol to the mix meant that Feyre actually stayed in until the end - Rhys being the other remaining competitor - and less surprisingly everyone started getting tired sooner.  Amren stuck it out the longest, losing in third place, and even stayed a bit to see the ‘final carnage’ but Varian’s subtle touches and whispered innuendos that got louder the more he threw back eventually drew her away from the game and left Feyre and Rhysand on their own.

By the time she’d trounced him, the sky was already shifting from midnight black to that gold-tinged color that slowly allows the sun to eek across the dark landscape, and as such, Feyre checked the locks and _dared_ Rhysand to try and leave,  And then, between lowered inhibitions (care of Mor’s mixed beverages), a recent and not so small insect problem in her apartment, and Cassian’s excited gesticulating while drinking said mixed beverages on Feyre’s futon, they ended up sharing her bed.

And in the haze of an evening spent with friends, Rhysand’s platonic physical affection, and a enough drinks to be pleasantly buzzed, Feyre didn’t consider how the closeness would impact her sanity.  An oversight she’s regretting in the light of day.  Particularly when her subtle shifts simply cause his grip to tighten and she’s treated to an up close and personal feel of his muscled torso.

Working with slightly more intent, Feyre wriggles her fingers beneath his arm and tries to pry it away, which draws a groan from her strange bedfellow.  “What the hell are you doing awake?”

“It’s daylight, Rhys.  People wake up when it’s light out.  I know this is a foreign concept,” Feyre drawls, dropping off at the end as she rolls away from his slightly loosened embrace and tries to ignore the bereft feeling in her chest.  The last stand of the hopeless piner - denial and distance.

When she comes back from the bathroom, hair smoothed, teeth brushed, and bladder emptied, Rhys hasn’t moved and she remembers that he apparently doesn’t believe in wearing shirts to bed.  The floorboards creak under her feet and Rhysand’s violet eyes open slowly - who knew blinking could be that sensual - and he props his head up on one hand.  “Coming back to bed?  I can’t get comfortable without you.”

Eyes narrowing, Feyre fiddles with her overlarge t-shirt and debates the pros and cons of getting back in the bed.  Pros: Rhysand is in the bed, Rhysand is _shirtless_ in the bed, she still has a semi-head ache from lots of shouting and drinking last night, and also Rhysand is in the bed, did she mention?  As cons go, its mostly: Rhysand _her unrequited crush_ is in the bed.  Which, it really got past the point of crush about six months in when he came and picked her up from that god-awful benefit Tamlin had begged her to attend, and now, two years later, her internal monologue is pretty much ‘don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him,’ on an eternal loop whenever Rhysand’s around.

And if she thought his sleep-innocent face was adorable, his mussed hair and pouty face is even more so - while also being infinitely harder to resist because those eyes…

It only takes a few strides for her to plop back in the bed and then she’s snuggling herself under the sheets.  Before she knows it, Rhys has pulled her back against his chest, this time with her face tucked under his chin, breaths carding across his collarbone.  “And to think you wanted to _get up_.”

Feyre’s eyes have drifted closed at this point, and she lies their, humming her awareness while she savors the scent of jasmine and something cool and fresh that always clings to Rhys. 

It’s at this point that Feyre silently marvels at the complete _rightness_ of them together.  Normally, if she was cuddling this close and this unclothed with someone new, it would be all nervous shifting and twitchy hands and sweat in uncomfortable places.  But here, it’s just a slight elevation in heart rate that makes her blood run hot in that way where she wishes she could tilt her head back and kiss her way up Rhysand’s jawline.

She’s jarred from a particularly vivid and completely unintentional daydream when Rhysand’s hands begin sweeping, firm circuits over her back - smooth and comforting.  Until his finger catches the hem of her shirt and his skin is pressed against her bare back for the briefest of brushes.

They take twin sharp inhales and Rhys freezes, his heart thudding beneath her ear while her breaths become more labored.  “Feyre I - “

“I should - ,“ and Feyre starts to get up again, before Rhysand can completely destroy her, but he doesn’t let her go.

His hold is gentle enough that she _could_ break away, but firm enough that she knows he doesn’t want her to.  Rhysand’s hand skates up her back, and cups her head, thumb brushing along her cheekbone, his eyes warm.  “Please don’t go.”

Part of her breaks when she murmurs, “I can’t - ,“ and it looks like his heart is breaking along with her, “I can’t be with you like this, just once and then never - it’s already too much.”

Then he’s twisting onto his back and pulling her fully atop him, her hair tossed over one shoulder and draping in tendrils across his chest.  It’s a low purr when he finally speaks, “I’d like it to be like this far more than once, Feyre darling.”

Raising her hand to press his more firmly against her cheek, Feyre can’t help the watery laugh that leaves her throat in a choked sound.  Still, she’s speechless, and Rhysand seems willing to fill the gap.  “If I’d ever known you even _considered_ us - Feyre I’ve loved you for so long I can barely remember a time when I _didn’t_.”

In lieu of a response, Feyre crushes her lips against his, relentless and seeking, as her hands knit through his sleep mussed locks.  When she breaks away to _finally_ kiss her way down his jawline like she’s daydreamed about Rhysand’s voice is a low murmur, “Feyre, Feyre darling.”

She pauses to nuzzle behind his ear, nipping at his neck and hums an answer.  Gently, he brings a hand to the back of her head and tilts her face toward his, “Don’t go so far away yet, yeah?”

Quirking a brow, she keeps eye contact and marks him, pink and proud before returning to loom over him, her hair a curtain around them golden with the morning sun.  “And just what would you have me do up here?”

Smiling against her lips, Rhysand flips her onto her back and falls into the cradle of her thighs.  “I think _show_ would be better than tell.”

In response, Feyre reaches down and divests herself of her t-shirt and fiddles with his pajama bottoms, “You’re up.”

He blinks wordlessly at the expanse of skin she’s revealed, pale as moonlight with hints of summer sun on her shoulders and chest from their trips to the beach on lazy Sunday afternoons.  A blush rises on her cheeks when he doesn’t speak and she chews her lip, “I - I’m not - “

With an air of worship, Rhysand runs his hands up her sides, over the plains of her shoulders, and looks her dead in the eye, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen - and not for your body or your features - just _you_ Feyre.”

Rhysand’s last words break of on a whisper and then they work in tandem to remove their remaining clothes, tossing them haphazardly off the bed as they finally become one and Feyre’s breath leaves her in a sigh.  “ _Rhys_ \- I - “

He pushes forward again, gaining a rhythm to fill the quiet morning and Feyre manages to murmur against his ear, “I love you, my greatest friend, my most - my - _Rhys_.”

Smirking in that delicious way of his, Rhysand pulls her leg higher around his hip and drawls, slow and smooth, “I hope this isn’t something you do with all your friends, Feyre.”

There’s laughter in his voice, but his eyes are missing that full spark, the one she knows to well and in it’s place is a hint of fear.  “Rhysand, you’re my - “ he bites her earlobe and lets one hand wander over her torso.  Tightening her leg around his waist, she pulls him to a halt and holds his gaze, “You’re my _soulmate_ \- I never want to be without you.”

At that, his violet eyes light as his hair becomes even more tousled, and he lets himself drop onto his back, taking her with him so she straddles his hips, still connected.  “Take me then, Feyre,” she lifts herself up and back down in long, languorous movements, “take me, because I’m already yours.”

And the it’s a rush of hands and breaths and thrusts until their twin cries sound and Feyre collapses against Rhysand’s chest.  As their sweat-sheened bodies cool and their breathing relaxes, Rhys’ runs his fingers through Feyre’s messy locks. 

Groaning at the glorious soreness that begins seeping through her body, muscles unused for so long now being called upon again in the most strenuous way she’s ever experienced, Feyre pushes up and settles her chin on her folded hands, resting across Rhysand’s chest.  He’s got that look in his eye, giddy and sated, that she wants to see forever, a small smile brimming on his lips as she playfully bites at the finger he runs around her lips.  Pressing a kiss to the tip after releasing her grip, Feyre grins, “I don’t know about you, but f I’d known all I had to do to get a love confession was drunk-beat you in Monopoly, I’d’ve done it a long time ago.”

“The feeling’s mutual - I would have thrown a game ages ago,” he shoots back, eyes mischievous with that twinkle he gets anytime he’s starting something.

Pinching his inner arm, Feyre presses up on her palms on either side of his head so she looms overhead.  “I won that game fair and square _and you know it_.”

His teeth flash in open mouthed laughter.  “I think I’d be the expert on whether I purposefully lost a game, Feyre darling.”

“Take it back, sore losing _prick_ ,” Feyre growls, fingers skating up his sides in random circuits.

Propping himself on one elbow, Rhysand presses his mouth against her ear and breaths, low and dangerous, “What’ll you do if I don’t?”


End file.
